The Way
by Zipper Whippersnapper
Summary: Though they're hungry and cold, surrounded by the old and grey, they hope that the road they walk on can still be paved in gold. A better summary will follow when I can come up with one. All OCs belong to their respective owners.
1. Chapter 1

_Heya guys! I'd just like to apologize for the horrific delay in updates and tell you that the first chapter is up! Hope you all enjoy it, and please don't forget to review. If your OC is in this story, let me know if I got their character right; if your OC isn't in the story, feel free to tell me what you think also! Feedback is always appreciated. ^^_

_I think I should tell you, though: I'll be starting work soon, so it'll take longer for me to update. I'll try to update once a week, but don't count on it. :/ Once every week and a half to two weeks is more likely._

_Anyway, on with the chapter!_

Had anyone living been in the street at that time, they would have first noticed the carnage literally spread across the area like so much wet paint; the pale gray of the cement sidewalks were stained a dull red-brown with gore that had been left uncleaned for many a day. Corpses – themselves the same mottled color as the curbstones on which they lay – lay motionless, the source of the filth caked on the ground. Their milky eyes stared unblinkingly ahead, seemingly unaware and yet accepting of the various bullets and gashes that had been the cause of their demise. A few of the dead were missing eyes altogether, faces obliterated in red-black masses of burns and caked blood; these unlucky souls were grouped mostly together, arranged in vaguely circular patterns around small scorched craters in the pavement.

A soft breeze blew through the silent urban morgue, somewhat lessening the putrid smell of rot. A plastic bag was dislodged from under the skeletal wreck of a burned car; spiraling end over end, it wafted across a large crimson blot on the sidewalk, its gauzy material unstained and pristine. It barely made ten feet before it blew against another car and was trapped, rustling quietly against the bloodstained metal. The wind died down and the bag slid to the blacktop. All was still.

Silence pressed in, oppressive and heavy as the stench that was quickly regaining its previous strength. Nothing else stirred, nothing made a single sound. It was as if the entire world itself had succumbed alongside the mutilated forms scattered around like trash.

Light dragging sounds trickled into the scene; a lone figure turned a corner and entered the narrow corridor of the street. Male or female – its hair had been ripped off, leaving only a shredded scalp, and the rest of it was too bloody and injured to tell – it wandered down the abandoned road, stopping occasionally to stare ahead at its surroundings with dull, unfocused, cataract eyes. Air bubbled from a vicious wound to its side; a flap of shredded, necrotic skin lost its battle with gravity, fell from the creature's side, and landed with a wet _plop_ on the sidewalk. Seemingly unaware of the severity of its injury, the bloodied figure resumed its aimless walking with the same inane, mindless air. The plastic bag somehow found its way into the thing's path and was ground underfoot.

Suddenly, the hiss-crackle of static split the air, accompanied by the warbling of a radio being tuned. In the terse stillness of the street, the sound echoed like a thunderclap; the cacophony lasted for a few seconds before focusing into rhythmic, recognizable sound.

"_Pleased to meet you; hope you guess my name, oh yeah._

_Ah, what's puzzling you is the nature of my game, ah yeah—"_

With a focus unbefitting its moronic, damaged appearance, the Infected whirled to face the source of the music. Across the street, a building sat primly among its looted and half-demolished brethren; the red cross on its closed, bolted door advertised safety and replenishment to all those still capable of reading and recognizing the sign. The rumble of a drum beat was coming from within, tinny and tinged with static.

Vacant face twisting into a horrific snarl, the creature charged for the source of the noise, its pounding footsteps joined by others that appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. The collective cries and shrieks of rage from the swiftly-growing mob swallowed up the music; from inside the safe house loud swearing could be heard. A small slot in the door opened up and the barrel of a gun poked out tentatively – several loud banging sounds interrupted the noise of the Horde and a few Infected dropped, falling and being trampled under the feet of their fellows. After a moment's hesitation, the gun muzzle was retracted and eerie silence came from within the building.

The Horde threw themselves upon the safe house door, pounding and scratching at the steel-reinforced wood with a ferocity previously seen only in the wildest of beasts. Swarming, they ripped, snarled, even bit at the one thing separating them from the irritating drone of the music and heavy breathing of their potential prey inside; under the combined force of their attack, the door began to buckle inward.

Inside, a young man – his eyes clear and blue-gray, his blood free of the Infection – backed away from the rapidly-failing barrier. He clutched the worn metal and wood of this shotgun close to his chest, obscuring the smiling bear logo of his favorite pre-Infection band, the Grateful Dead. The jollity of the garment clashed grimly with his expression as he swore and looked frantically to the back of the room, voice trembling and thick with a Boston accent.

"Ah shit. Shit – they're fucking coming, fucking coming into here – oh god I'm fucking dead –"

For every shot he fired at the cracked wood and swarming bodies outside, the moans of several more Infected answered; this was a full-on Horde attack. The viral monsters kept throwing themselves into the range of this shotgun, the disease rushing through their veins only serving to drive them to greater and greater anger and to further ignore the nonfatal shots to their limbs that the man couldn't help but make. In his panic, he kept missing the mark – the door was nearly gone.

The top half of something that had once been a man – businessman, by the look of his ragged, filthy suit – pushed through the widened gap between doorframe and door. A gnarled hand stretched out for the Survivor, snagging the material of his pants leg. The Grateful Dead fan fell to the ground and was dragged closer to the forest of arms worming their way into the safe house; though he kept firing, he could feel death working its fingers through the wild shock of his hair, breathing a horrible graveyard smell into his face, calling to him with the sound of the Infected and the high-pitched beeping of a pipe bomb –

Realization struck and the Survivor ducked, holding his bandaged arms over his head and flattening himself into the cold tile of the floor as a loud explosion rocked the building. The businessman-Infected flinched and cried out, mouth working in a loud dying declamation before it suddenly stopped and fell limp – frenzied attack machine turned mostly harmless deadweight in a few milliseconds. Its arms and head hung down from where it was lodged in the door and outside, the smell of burning flesh was horrible.

Unperturbed by the now-finished battle, the radio went on calmly playing its music. The speakers had accumulated a thin coating of gray drywall dust in the wake of the explosion.

"–_have some sympathy, and some taste_

_use all your well-learned politesse—"_

As the lone man lay there, hardly daring to believe his good luck – a _pipe bomb?_ Where the _hell _had that pipe bomb come from? That honestly couldn't mean – the corpse slid down to the tiled floor. The handle of the doorknob turned; a loud voice, female and full of cold authority, interrupted the rock rhythm of the Rolling Stones.

"If anyone alive is in there, would you kindly open the damn door and _shut that goddamn radio off?_"

"– _soul to waste, ooh yeah!_

_But what's puzzling you is the, nature of my game, ah yeah!"_

The man could see three silhouettes hovering outside; eyes narrowing, he snatched up his shotgun and slowly got to his feet, checking soundlessly to see if there were still bullets in the gun. There were.

A second female voice sighed wearily and countered the first. "Oh shut up Cassidy, it's not like this is bad music –"

The first voice cut in again, sounding more irritated than ever. "It's the Rolling Stones, of course it is! They're the most overhyped, unoriginal band of the century. Of course _you_ wouldn't know that—"

"Oh really? What else wouldn't I know, Ms. Frigid Lawyer—"

Another voice, calmer and deeper, male most likely, cut into the ornery conversation. The slight twang of a Southern accent was apparent in the few words it uttered as a slightly broader shadow inched closer to the door. "Guys, don't yell. You may bring in more of them." The tone of the new man's voice became kind, coaxing. "Hello? Is anyone in there?" A knock – of all things, a _knock_ – came at the door. "Hello? We're not Infected, there's no need to worry yerself."

The young man inside wasn't having any of that. He backed up to where the radio sat on a table, fiddling with the power cord and yanking it out of the wall. The song was silenced mid-beat. Outside, the trio – what he could see of them, anyway – stiffened. He expected that – _had_ to be dangerous, they _had to be_.

The outsider pushed gently at the door, opening it a crack; a rounded, seemingly impossibly calm face pushed its way into the room. Dark brown hair bushed out around a calm continence slightly covered by facial hair; light gray eyes met the other's bluer ones and widened. "Who—"

Before the sentence could be finished, the Grateful Dead fan brought his shotgun up and aimed it at the unknown face. His voice wasn't as cold as the first woman's had been, but it still held the necessary authority. "Back the fuck up now! Right fucking now before I fucking shoot ya in your fucking face!"

"Shit!" The other man's head vanished from view; the sounds of guns being drawn and safeties being taken off clicked ominously, the actual sounds almost describing the tension in the air. The door was slammed shut again as voices were raised.

"Dave, what the hell is—"

"He's got a gun. Guys, back yerselves up now, before –Cassidy, don't!"

The door was kicked inward and an older woman stepped inside, her heels clicking and avoiding the slumped corpse of the dead Infected – it was apparent now that his lower body had been incinerated by the bomb along with most of the other Infected outside. Her features twisted into a look of heavy disdain, she brushed ash from the fabric of her black skirt and glared at the Grateful Dead fan; the rapidly-fading light from the sun reflected dimly on the whiteness of her blouse, spotted and stained as it was with the all-too-familiar red of dried gore. Before he could analyze any more of her appearance, however, his attention was instantly captured by the cold, shiny steel of the gun in her hand.

As he froze, the woman smiled thinly. "Are you going to put that gun down and come outside, or am I going to shoot you? I asked politely for you to open the door and turn off the radio," Quickly, her pale eyes darted to the dead radio in the corner, then flicked back to him. "You've done one out of the two, which doesn't put me in a very good mood. So if you don't listen, I may very well just shoot you and ignore the fact that I just wasted a perfectly good pipe bomb saving your unappreciative ass."

The other woman – she had lighter brown hair – mulishly rolled her eyes. Angrily she muttered, "It was my pipe bomb to begin with." The stocky man next to her nudged her in the ribs, nodding slowly. Both of them had their guns drawn.

There was no way he could take on three people with guns, the man realized. Slowly, he lowered the shotgun and fixed the blue bandanna tied around his head – it had slipped uncomfortably close to his eyes during the commotion and was partially obscuring his sight. Warily, he stepped outside, nerves frayed and ready to snap into action at any second. As he exited the safe house and stepped out onto the even more bloody pavement, the fear became too great for him to bear it silently.

"Alright, you got me outside. You try any funny business, and I swear to God I'll – I'll –"

The older woman – Cassidy – raised an eyebrow. "You'll what, Baa-sten? What is a guy with your Taxachusetts accent doing here in the South?"

"That's none of your damn business." His hands tightened around the trigger – he could shoot this Cassidy woman now and maybe duck as the others retaliated –

The man must have noticed, because he shouldered Cassidy aside – not too unkindly – and raised his hands. "Fine, fine. Suit yerself – jus' put the gun down. We're all friends here."

Cassidy snorted, while the other young woman in the back tried her best to look agreeable and kind with what looked like a pistol and a blood-caked baseball bat in both her hands. It was her who spoke next. "Yeah…I mean, hey. I'm Charlie. What's your name?" Catching her peers' expressions, she frowned. "What? If we're trying to be nice and all, we've gotta introduce ourselves –"

"To the guy who's trying to kill us?" Cassidy rolled her eyes and glared at first Charlie, than the other person in their group. After a pointed look from the man, she relented. "Fine. The name's Cassidy. I'd shake your hand if you weren't just trying to shoot me."

"Dave." It was the stocky man who actually extended a hand for the Grateful Dead fan to shake, smiling warmly. "Grateful Dead, huh? I like their music." When the newcomer refused to take his hands off the gun he was holding, much less shake, he sighed. It seemed like the narrow-eyed distrust was seriously depressing him. "What's your name? Do you have a name?"

After quickly checking to see if anybody – or any_thing_ – besides these people was around, the yellow-clad man finally gave in and responded. "Otto." It took the three of them putting their guns completely away before he put the safety on his own gun. "It's Otto. What do you want?"

Dave actually balked at that one, as if the question was so pointless it had no answer. To him, it really _was _that pointless; they had just saved this guy, and still the panicked look hadn't left his face. He hadn't even stopped shaking from what should have been the short-lived shock of meeting other Survivors. Something was off about this Otto character...but he was human. That was what mattered, and he'd be damned if he didn't live up to what Grandad had taught him about human kindness.

Smiling, the man with the Louisiana accent spread his hands. "We just saved your life. Care to join us?"

Before Otto got a chance to reply, Cassidy and Charlie's voice rang out in unison: "_What?_"

Charlie gaped at her companion, twitchily putting her gun back into its holdster – _makeshift_, Otto noted. This girl wasn't a professional marksman – and keeping her baseball bat out. As Cassidy rolled her eyes and looked away, the younger woman glanced over in Otto's direction and hissed to Dave. "You sure this is a good idea? This guy looks…y'know…Z-shocked." Charlie caught Otto's eye and smiled sheepishly, covering the unconscious shudder at the expression on the new man's face. With new resolve she turned back to Dave. "Why should we bring him along?"

The Louisiana native's face twisted in confusion at the unfamiliar term – 'Z-shock?' What in the hell was that? – before smoothing out into its characteristic serenity. Dave looked back at Charlie and shrugged. "He's a Survivor, isn't he? All us Survivors gotta stick together, watch each others' backs, 'else we're all zombie chow."

The logic was irrefutable, though Charlie hated to admit it. Nodding, she looked back at Otto and attempted an apology. "Sorry, dude. It's just –"

"None of us have any reason to trust each other. How do I know you won't shoot me the second I piss one of you off?" Otto scowled, finger twitching uncomfortably close to the trigger again; his ears just managed to catch Cassidy's muttered response: something about how oddly prophetic his statement was. "How do you know_ I_ won't do the same?"

"Because if you do, it'll be _my _heel up_ your_ ass. The thing's trashed enough as it is, so nothing's stopping me." Cassidy smiled grimly again and purposely ground the sole of her shoe into the bloody sidewalk. "What the fuck's wrong with you, anyway? I thought hippies were supposed to be friendly."

"There's no reason for me to be _friendly_," snarled Otto. He brushed a blood-matted strand of blonde hair out of his face and looked around; it wasn't safe here. Already, they could hear the groans of a few Infected that were drawing close, drawn by the sound of the explosion and the reek of burned flesh.

Flicking the safety on his gun, he gave in to the three other Survivor's stares. "Where are you headed?"

Cassidy's foot tapped methodically as the trio looked to one another; this subject hadn't quite been decided yet. Charlie eventually piped up. "Well, there are evac stations in the main part of the –"

Otto cut in, voice bitter. "Don't bother. They're shut down – CEDA pulled out." Shouldering his shotgun, he raised an eyebrow. "Don't believe me? Go there and get shot or left for the Infected."

Charlie deflated, clutching her baseball bat tightly. Cassidy swore under her breath and glared at Otto, only to look around as an especially close moan echoed down a nearby alley. Hearing the sound, Dave sighed and scratched his head. "Guess that means we're headed for wherever there are less zombies, then. I heard that Texas is good, since nobody really lives there."

"Yeah, but it's next to _Mexico,_" snorted Cassidy.

Charlie shot a particularly venomous glare at the lawyer. "You got a better idea of where to go?"

_That _shut Cassidy up; the older woman sighed and seemed to fight with her pride before finally responding. "No, I don't."

"Guys, please." Dave said, playing the peacemaker again. "How about we get to another safe house and puzzle it out there?" With that, he spread his hands again. "What do you say, Otto? You with us?"

The Grateful Dead fan thought it over. "Fine. You pull _any_ shit and I'm out, though."

Cassidy grinned, her stunningly white teeth bared in a horribly cheerful, somewhat threatening expression. "That's what _I_ said."

_That's right. I wrote this while listening to "Sympathy For The Devil." It's an amazing song; you should listen to it._

_I butchered the initial meeting story; this could have been done much better, but I just wanted to get this first chapter out. "Writing is the unrestrained stroking of a verbal ego," as they say – now that the ball's rolling, the next chapters will be much better, especially if you support my writing. *shameless self-promotion*_

_So for now, adios, and don't forget to review!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Another chapter! Hooray! Just so you know, I edited the last chapter a bit to include the scene where Otto agrees to join the group; this way everything flows better and there aren't any awkward time skips. Well, there's a time skip, but this one is better than the one I originally had planned._

_By the way, __**thank you**__, everyone who reviewed on the chapter! Cookies for you! ^^_

It was dark.

So very dark.

The streetlights were extinguished; the power cut so that the light bulbs hung still and cold in their holders. Row after row of the dead things lined the street, cluttered with abandoned, damaged cars and random articles of trash. Quite a few of those articles of trash were bodies – more corpses of the Infected with eyes that familiar milky-white color and bodies sporting parallel scratches and bouquets of bruises that should have been the cause of their demises, but hadn't been.

It wasn't the virus that killed these people.

Far away in the distance, a long, howling cry split the silence that hung like gauze. It echoed through the streets as a dark figure leapt from a roof high overhead. Another, sharper cry came, followed by a choking gurgle. Somewhere else, a car backfired; somewhere else, something coughed. Everything else was quiet.

A light breeze tore into the hot stillness of the Savannah night. Heavy with humidity and the stench of death, it picked up the remnants of a newspaper and sent it up into the empty darkness of the night sky, different sections fluttering like a flock of ghostly birds. Other crunching noises joined the quiet sounds made by the airborne paper; in the darkness, four small circles of light lit upon the sides of overturned, eerily empty cars, grazing the ground now and again and throwing up fantastic shadows against the walls of the buildings flanking the road.

"It's like somethin' out of a horror movie."

A quiet voice, tinged with a hint of a Southern drawl, cut into the oppressive quiet. Dave abruptly stopped walking and let his flashlight rest on the corpse of a young woman lying belly-down on the pavement. The dead Infected's hands stretched out straight ahead, hands half-curled into fists as though the poor soul had died while reaching for something. Broken, cracked teeth shone wetly, bleached an uncannily white color in the glare of the flashlight.

Wincing, the man pointed to the body and looked to his companions. "Look. It's like…I dunno, _Dawn of the Dead_. One of those end-a'-the world movies." Fishing around inside his green, long-sleeved shirt, he pulled out his dog tags and grasped them in a slightly-sweaty hand. "_Damn_."

Two out of the quartet continued walking, the circles of light from their flashlights shrinking steadily as they silently moved on. Charlie slowed down, staying close to Dave and staring questioningly at the motion. It wasn't the second time he'd done that when confronted with something distressing, but she knew that now wasn't the best time to ask. Maybe later, when they were safe and he didn't look like he was ready to either vomit or burst into tears – maybe both. Of course, she wasn't doing much better herself.

Her slightly-bent baseball bat sat in her hand; something dropped off of it and landed on the pavement with a loud, wet sound. Up ahead, Otto jumped and whirled around; in the harsh glare of the light, his wide-eyed fear became even more alarming.

The sudden urge to cheer up their (usually) fearless leader overpowered any fear Charlie had; if _Dave_ got upset, who'd stop them from succumbing to despair? Definitely not the Otto kid – that guy was about as cheerful as a smashed alarm clock. A twitchy, paranoid, trigger-happy smashed alarm clock. "Nah, Dave. Not _Dawn of the Dead_. There's no mall." Smiling grimly at the slightly confused expression on Dave's face, she stopped walking, one slim eyebrow raised in good-natured wonder. "You _have_ seen Dawn of the Dead, right? When all the people turned into zombies, they went to the mall."

"The mall." Dave sighed and rubbed at the back of his head. "I don't remember _that_ part."

Up ahead, one of the flashlight-beams whirled around, shining on them balefully like a gigantic eye. Though the voice that called them from further down the road was quiet, it had the forceful quality of a full-blown shout. "Hey. Dan and…whatever your name is. Hurry up or you'll be left behind."

The woman rolled her eyes, trusting that the near-total darkness would hide her distain from view. "It's Charlie, and this is Dave. _Charlie_ and _Dave_. Jeez, you should know our names by now."

The eye turned away and the sound of footsteps on broken glass continued. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you two fall behind and get killed, I'll make sure that I carve it on your tombstones." Cassidy continued walking away, angrily hobbling along in soiled high-heels that were completely useless in the middle of the apocalypse. "Damn, I should have ditched these heels."

"You betcha. We can probably find ya some other shoes if we pass a store," volunteered Dave, smiling wanly as Cassidy muttered something negative and kept gingerly walking off. Dave and Charlie shot each other a single glance; shrugging, Dave jerked his head in the direction of the other two. "Shall we?"

The woman nodded and tugged at the collar of her T-shirt, straightening the fabric that had begun to slip to one side. "Yeah, before Cassidy what's-her-name keeps snarling at us. Somehow, I don't think shoes would help with her attitude."

"One can only try. That's what my Grandma used to say," supplied the young man, and the two of them sped up, chuckling at the joke.

Up ahead, the sports section of the newspaper rustled quietly next to Otto and he froze. With a startled, grunting sound of fear, his foot shot out and stomped on it; the word-covered paper was flattened into the grungy road and stayed still as the Deadhead stomped on it again for good measure. Another of those bloodcurdling cries came from somewhere nearby, but this time no answering shriek of pain was heard. Not a good sign.

"_Thanks,_ Baa-sten. Now we've got a Hunter on us," said Cassidy, voice heavy on the sarcasm. Tottling up to Otto, she grimaced and rubbed the back of one foot. "For another 'Survivor,' you really aren't too good at the _surviving_ part."

Otto cocked his shotgun and fixed his bandanna, not even sparing the lawyer a glance. "I'm fine at surviving. I've lasted this long."

"Sure. Being trapped in a safe house by a Horde is just something you do for kicks, then?"

Before Otto could answer, Dave and Cassidy crunched up close to them, weapons out and ready as the circles of illumination from their flashlights bobbed alongside them. Charlie's hair was bushing out, frizzy and untamable with the humidity; irritably she pushed some of it back with one hand and glanced around. "We heard a Hunter. Did you-?"

Otto nodded, eyes sharp and gleaming in the light of the flashlights. Silently he raised a hand that shook slightly and pointed in the direction the cry had come from – the black hulk of a car sat hunched on the opposite side of the road, about fifty feet from them. A flashing red light alerted them to the potential danger contained within it: car alarm. If they so much as tripped and hit the vehicle, it would go off, and that meant…

"Nobody go _near_ that damn car." Cassidy said testily, jerking her head in its direction. "The last thing we need is a –"

"Look out!" Dave shouted as a rough, animalistic keen interrupted her. A dark shape flew through the air towards them, eager claws outstretched and waiting to rip into whatever unlucky Survivor it had chosen to attack. Cassidy turned and brought up her gun to shoot it as it flew towards her, but her reactions were nowhere near as fast as the Hunter's – with a sickening _thump_, it landed on top of her and brought back a claw to strike. Before any of the others could react, however, its head jerked back and a hot spray of blood spurted from the side of its head; in the light of the muzzle flash, they could see Otto's face twisted into a feral snarl not unlike that of the zombie. The Hunter yelped in pain and fell back, releasing its leg hold on Cassidy and clawing mindlessly at the fatal injury in its last movements. The lawyer swore, rolling out from underneath the dead Hunter and scrambling to her feet.

Otto stared at her, a corner of his mouth twitching into something like a mocking smile. "For a survivor, _you're_ not too good at surviving either. Or do you enjoy being pounced by Hunters for kicks?"

"Oh shut up. We're lucky you didn't hit that car, the way you swung that shotgun around." Cassidy rubbed a hand against her hip, wincing slightly as Dave handed her the gun she had dropped in the commotion. "And I thought _Jeff_ was rough…old boyfriend," she added as Dave tilted his head.

"Oh. Well, if ya'll right, we should go. There might be another one around." Turning, he all but clapped a hand on Otto's shoulder, face beaming with gratitude. "Otto, good shooting – this could have been a lot worse."

Otto shrunk back and away from the other man, eyes already trained on the road ahead. "It will be if we don't move." Head swiveling back and forth, he began walking again.

Dave watched him go, shaking his head slightly at the words. As Cassidy and Charlie followed, he rubbed his temples and sighed. "Cheery." Grudgingly he kept up with the others, flashlight beam bobbling around like a white apple in a bucket of tar; one small light in all the darkness. Things could get a lot worse, it seemed. The sooner they found a safe place to spend the night, the better.

_This one is short, but hopefully it continued fleshing out the characters and incorporated enough action for it to be interesting. I've got to log off now, but for the time being: don't forget to review! G'night, ya'll. ^^_


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry for another horrible delay – blame work and the sudden lack of internet in my neighborhood. Damn Cablevision…_

_As an apology of sorts, I tried to make this update as long as possible, to make up for lost time. In fact, it includes material from two separate chapters, stuck more or less together. Hope you all enjoy it! _

Cassidy's voice broke the watchful silence. "We can't keep walking out here when it's this dark out. We've got to stop."

Jolted out of their respective reveres, the other Survivors took a moment to tear their gazes away from the pavement and glance around at their surroundings at eye level. Although they all kept their ears open, listening for the telltale sounds of Infected, most of their attention had been previously focused on what was on the ground in front of them; shattered glass and debris were scattered everywhere and the last thing anyone needed was to trip over something unseen and sprain an ankle.

Now that they had stopped walking and were glancing around, it was apparent that, beyond the pool of light from their collective light source, nothing could be seen but inky darkness. Even the moon had vanished in the gloom – behind a cloud, most likely, though the fact did nothing to quell the sinking feeling in the Survivors' stomachs. The hours running on adrenalin and their own feet were catching up to them.

A faint jingling heralded Dave's response; the dog tags were once again clutched in his fist. Blinking and stifling a yawn with the crook of his arm, he nodded. "Sounds good to me. Can anyone see a building that isn't too trashed? We'll have to stop there for a breather."

"Some sleep would be _great_," added Charlie as she cast her flashlight around. Building after building met her gaze, only to quickly be rejected. This one was burned down…that one was so trashed they'd never be able to defend it. One house had a large blood streak across its front door – that one was definitely not a place to stay in. "I don't see anywhere we can stay. Everything's too trashed and out in the open." The young woman tiredly rubbed at her eyes and bit her lip thoughtfully. "Do you think there's a safe house nearby? Because we could just walk a bit further and look for one…"

"No." Otto shook his head. "It's dark – we can't see. That gives them an advantage."

Dave clenched his jaws and breathed deeply, making sure that his voice and tone were reasonably under control before he spoke. "Otto's right." The yellow-clad man's remark made sense, but did he _have_ to be so damn _paranoid_? It was beginning to drag down everyone's morale, and that was the last thing they needed. Shaking the thoughts out of his mind, Dave let his flashlight beam trace a long arc on the opposite side of the street. The jagged teeth of broken glass glinted wickedly at them – a sight he still hadn't gotten quite used to. "Trashed or not, we've got to pick –"

"_Shit!_" Catching the ominous gleam out of the corner of her eye, Charlie drew her pistol and aimed for the source of the reflected light. Dimly, she realized that the action was quickly becoming second nature – the broken glass looked too much like those blank, soulless eyes she'd been seeing so much. A foggy thought drifted up from the depths of her tired mind as her finger brushed the trigger: _Great. Now I'm just as jumpy as the Otto guy._

"What the hell are you doing?" Cassidy snarled, moving out of the possible range of the gun and letting her hand drift towards the holster of her own weapon. Next to her, Otto was already aiming for the back of Charlie's head, shotgun cocked and ready to turn her brain into colored rain. "Put the damn gun away before you shoot us!"

"Charlie, it's glass. It's just some broken glass." Dave gently out a hand on her shoulder, smiling wanly as Charlie's head snapped over and she stared at him. Squeezing his dog tags in his left hand, the man carefully took the gun from Charlie and flicked the safety on with his right one. "No need to shoot anything. There are no zombies here." He patted her shoulder, shooting a warning glance at Otto and Cassidy out of the corner of his eye. "Put the guns away, guys."

Cassidy held her (empty) hands up, her eyes wide and seemingly innocent. "Do I have a gun out?"

Dave raised an eyebrow, copying the doubtful expression the lawyer had used quite often by now. "I saw your hand moving."

"Can't blame someone for trying to protect herself." Shrugging, Cassidy crossed her arms, one aching foot tapping irritably. "Now can we go? It's pretty open out here, and I doubt that Baa-sten here," As Otto glared at her, she grinned mockingly. "Can pull off another of those lucky shots if a Hunter pounces us."

Dave nodded somberly and looked at Charlie. "You okay to go?"

"Um…yeah. Sorry." The still-concerned stare of Dave and the more annoyed gaze of Cassidy greeted Charlie as she turned away from the shattered storefront; Otto still had his shotgun out and was warily eyeing her. She felt a hot flush of blood creeping up her face – they were looking at her like she was going crazy, and who could blame them? She'd almost shot at a damn window, thinking that it was an Infected. How the hell did someone get _broken glass_ and a _zombie_ mixed up? Maybe she really _was_ Z-shocked and, any second now, she'd start twitching and randomly shooting at things like Otto.

Dave's soothing voice cut into her self-recriminating train of thought. Clumsily, dexterity cut through and reduced by weariness, he stuffed the dog tags back into his shirt and smiled. "That's alright. We're all tired here –" His eyes flicked over to Cassidy, then to Otto. "But it doesn't help us if we get too jumpy. Someone could get hurt."

Angrily, Cassidy blew air and squeezed the bridge of her nose with two slender fingers. "_No_, really? I'd never have guessed that we'd get _hurt _in the middle of a freaking _zombie apocalypse."_

"There's no need to be sarcastic. I'm just saying…" Dave trailed off as Otto abruptly turned away from the group and began creeping down the street, flashlight and shotgun out. "Where are you going?"

Otto's voice was quiet and slightly scared – Dave didn't think that he'd heard Otto speak when he didn't have that wary tone of voice. "There's a building. We might be able to stay there."

It took a few moments for the meaning of Otto's words to sink in; by the time Dave's eyes widened and he began following the Grateful Dead fan, Cassidy had already half-closed the distance between the rest of the group and Otto. If he wasn't so surprised, he might have heard the slight tinge of gratitude in her voice.

"Oh, thank god. I can finally kick off these shoes."

….

The place Otto had spotted was relatively intact, tucked between a looted, empty bank and what looked like some kind of clothing store; as soon as the four Survivors had checked the small building – it seemed to be a neighborhood grocery store, or a "bullshit mini-Wall mart," according to Cassidy – for any Infected, Cassidy took a flashlight and her gun and went over to the abandoned store, muttering something about "getting some clean clothing and shoes." Dave had insisted that she go inside with someone – she refused, although she did allow Otto to hover around outside the store, cautiously standing guard over both their newfound shelter and the other building.

Even as Cassidy went through a rack of sensible work pants, a pair of considerably more comfortable shoes in hand, she could hear his heavy breathing and the metallic _click_ of his shotgun as he saftied and un-saftied it. Rolling her eyes, she turned and hissed to the figure standing directly outside the shop. "Damnit, would you _quit_ with that? I can barely think."

The reply was immediate. "You don't need to think to pick up shoes. Or pants."

"So says the boy in the converse all-stars and Grateful Dead T-shirt."

Otto's voice sounded smug in the darkness outside; his flashlight beam bobbled a bit and Cassidy could see him shrug. "At least I'm not the one with blistered feet." Suddenly he stiffened and the smugness was gone, replaced instead by his usual fear. "Now get out. It's dangerous here."

Cassidy scrutinized a pair of black dress pants and decided that they would look fine with her top – as much as she wanted to replace the bloodstained garment, there didn't seem to be any clean shirts left in the store; only empty racks and a few dirty articles not worth wearing met her eyes as she looked around. Why people would take all the shirts and leave the pants and shoes was beyond her. After a quick check to make sure that nobody was watching, she put down her flashlight and quietly slipped on the new clothing, making sure that she kept her gun in her hand. It never hurt to be cautious, she felt.

Leaving her old skirt and shoes in a pile on the floor, she picked up her flashlight and made her way to the door. Otto was waiting impatiently outside. "You done yet?"

Chuckling, Cassidy spun around slightly, voice sarcastic and mocking. "How do I look?"

Otto spared her a single withering glance before looking down the street. "Out of place, but at least you can't complain about your damn heels anymore. Let's go, before something kills us." With that, he put the safety on his gun once more and walked over to the makeshift safe house. Banging on the door, he lowered his shotgun and fixed his bandana. "It's Otto. Cassidy got her shoes – let us in."

Dave's voice, slightly muffled, emerged from inside; the young man's drawl was evident. "I heard ya. Jus' you give me a second…" A series of clattering noises came as the Southerner unlocked the door and opened it, pausing as he looked over both Cassidy and Otto. Once he was certain they were both okay he stepped back, a smile lighting up his weary features. "Good to see that ya'll alright." Waving a hand around the dark space – just slightly more bright than outside, Cassidy noticed distastefully – he sighed. "The power's out, but we found some candles in the store so we're jus' lightin' those up now –"

"Candles and matches, but nothing else apparently." Charlie's voice greeted them as they filed inside; the young woman was poking around in some overturned racks in the corner, candle in hand. Brushing her auburn hair out of the way of the flame, she straightened up and glanced over at them. "There's got to be _something_ we can eat here, but I can't find anything…damn. Why is everything gone?"

"Hmm…I don't know." Cassidy cast her eyes around, looking for a chair to sit in. Finding nothing, she settled for leaning against the wall, gun and flashlight on a countertop nearby. "Maybe it's the fact we're in the middle of a looted deli? Every dumbass in the city must have cleaned out places like this as soon as the Infection hit."

An affirmative grunt answered Cassidy as Otto plunked himself down towards the back of the store. Silently, he removed a handful of shotgun shells from his pockets and set to work, reloading his shotgun and not looking at any of the other Survivors; in the darkness it was obvious he was having trouble putting the bullets into the chamber.

Bemusedly looking at Otto, Dave shook his head and picked up a candle. He lit it and gently put it down next to the Deadhead, earning a half-wary, half-grateful look from him. The Southerner grinned – they were making progress. "Well, think a'it this way – if the meat and perishable stuff was still here, we wouldn't be able to stay here with the smell. Though I _could_ go for a hamburger or some crawfish right now…"

"And a beer with your banjo by the campfire?"

Dave shot Cassidy a warning glance and pressed on, the grin still on his face. "My grandpa always cooked these fantastic crawfish on Saturdays. Gran would make peach cobbler…" Trailing off, he sighed, his smile fading. "I miss that."

"Score!"

All of the Survivors jumped as Charlie popped up from behind the counter Cassidy's gun was sitting on. Moving the weapon out of the way, the young woman heaved a six-pack of cans onto the smooth surface and grinned. In the dim candlelight, the innocent expression took on a much more sinister look. Spreading her arms, Charlie inclined her head in a moment of self-glorification. "Guess who just found something to drink? That's right. We got coke."

As Otto looked up momentarily and Dave perked up, Cassidy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because that's going to give us energy."

"It's better than nothing." Dave accepted the can offered to him by Charlie and cracked it open. Sipping the lukewarm, carbonated beverage, he sighed and wiped his mouth. "Ahh…even warm, it's still good."

Charlie slipped out from behind the counter and arranged herself on a clean part of the floor; holding out the remaining five cans of coke, she grinned. "You want one, Cassidy? Otto?"

Otto glanced at the proffered Coca-Cola and went back to his shotgun. "No."

"Oh, what the hell." Cassidy's face arranged itself in a look of extreme sacrifice, as if she was only putting up with Charlie's antics for the sake of the team – to tell the truth, she was pretty damn thirsty and was even willing to risk staining her teeth for relief from her parched throat. Opening the can, the lawyer tried her best to not gulp the entire drink down within moments, and instead put the can down at her side after a few swallows. "I'm a Pepsi person, but it's all the same carbonated sugar water anyway."

"The same _delicious_ carbonated sugar water." Dave muttered into his can, electing a snort of laughter from Charlie. The young woman rolled her drink between her palms, stifling the rest of her laughter; they were safe here as long as they kept quiet, but if any Infected outside were to hear them, there could be trouble.

The silence that was quickly beginning to settle in the small store held the small promise of relative safety – rest, too, if any of them could calm down enough and ignore the grim state of their surroundings. It was unlikely, though; the thoughts whirling and tumbling around in each Survivor's head was more than enough to keep them awake for days. The small amounts of caffeine on the drinks they were consuming and the eerie moans of Infected outside were, at this point, unnecessary to produce insomnia.

The dull, mechanical sound of Otto jamming bullets into his shotgun soon became the only thing that invaded the thick concrete of quiet that filled the room. Methodically, rhythmically, the young man placed the cartridges into the waiting chamber, pausing occasionally to check his pockets for more ammunition. Finding none, he drew his knees into his chest and placed the shotgun on them, warily peering over the double barrel at the others with a weary, wary expression.

"You know, I'm going to miss Coke."

Charlie sighed and held the red can up to the candlelight, frowning slightly as the flickering light played about its surface. "It's a stupid thing to say, but…they're not making it anymore, right? And there can't be that much left out there." Looking from Dave to Cassidy to Otto, she shrugged and sighed. "I'm probably being stupid, but it really hits home, you know?"

Dave nodded. "I know. It's the little things that get to you, sometimes. I know I miss music, myself – I'd _kill_ for a guitar and some time to play it."

"There are plenty of zombies out there, you know." Cassidy jerked a thumb over to the door, earning a few chuckles from Dave and Charlie, as well as an incredulous stare from Otto. Outside, something gurgled – probably a Boomer – and she smirked. "Your funeral, though."

Dave, still chuckling, shook his head. "Nah. I'm too damned tired to do any more killing." As he bulldogged his chuckling down into a slight giggle, a worried expression crossed his face. "I wonder if Jess and Gabe are alright."

Charlie cocked her head. "Who are Jess and Gabe?"

…_and once again my time for writing is up. The conversation will continue next chapter. I swear, I should be writing screenplays or something, because I can get the dialogue right, but not the descriptions. :/ Ah well. Hope you liked, and another chapter should be up soon._

_For those who have OCs: please answer the following questions in comments: 1) is your character religious? 2)How would they react if they met the other canon Survivors from L4D and L4D2, and how would they interact with them? 3)Where would your character want to go next in the story (ie. where would they want to travel)?_


	4. Chapter 4

_Yet again, I have returned from the grave of inactivity with another apology and another update. The same reasons apply; work's been kicking my ass, the internet still sucks where I am and I'm still unwilling to give up on this tale. Hopefully, you aren't going to stop reading and reviewing either. ^^_

_Just so you know, this chapter explores more of the characters' personalities and histories, then finally sets the stage for some real action. Lord knows this story needs more of that. ;) _

_People with the OCs: Don't forget to read the questions at the end of this chapter and answer them in comments – they're vital for characterization and how I decide the story will go. Oh, and everyone: feel free to give a shout out on how you think the story should go. Your opinions are always welcome._

"Who are Jess and Gabe?"

At that, Dave's eyes flitted to the side and the worry on his face became more pronounced – in the candlelight, Charlie and Cassidy could almost see the premature wrinkles forming as the weight of concern etched lines into his flesh. Otto, slouched off to the side, appeared to be asleep and unaware of this current line of conversation. Dave put his soda down next to his outstretched leg and pressed his now-freed hand against his knee. A hand reached inside his shirt and Cassidy snorted quietly; she knew he'd be at those damn army tags long before the quiet tinkling of metal on metal proved her right.

"Well…" Clutching his dog tags for reassurance, Dave struggled to get his story in order, face drawn in and arranged in an expression quite different from his usual caring smile. Swallowing uneasily, he opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, started over again. His voice was thick with anxiety and his Southern accent.

"I was with another…group, I guess ya'll could call it, before I met ya'll. It was me, Jess, an' Gabe. Jess was our medic, Gabe was the sniper, and I jus' sorta did whatever else we needed. It was mighty fine…we musta' lasted, say, five or so weeks like that – jus' movin' around an' fightin' when we had ta." A deep gust of a sigh escaped from Dave's lungs. "An' then…there were a bunch a' them. Too many a' them."

There was no need to clarify. Everyone knew who _they_ were. They could also guess what had happened to Jess and Gabe, although nobody appeared willing to volunteer their theory – Dave included.

Charlie frowned nervously and chewed at her lower lip, her can crinkling in her grip as curiosity battled fear and a rapidly-growing regard for the feelings of her fellow Survivor. Just as she decided to let the unknown fate of Dave's friends remain hanging in the space between the three – no, four, because Otto's eyes were open and he was awake – of them, Cassidy crunched her empty soda into a jagged mess of aluminum and raised an eyebrow. Charlie knew that she just _had_ to ask the unspoken question. That damn lawyer.

"So, are they alive or not?"

"I don't know." The growled reply was immediate and _very_ unlike Dave; the angry grimace, part fear, sadness, and rage didn't match up with what Charlie had gathered about the Southerner on the short period of time they had been together. Dave sucked in a sharp breath, eyes blinking quickly and narrowing as his clutch on the tags tightened to a white-knuckled vice grip. He held the breath for a moment, then sighed; of their own accord, his fingers relaxed and slipped free of the small metal ovals. "I just don't know."

Cassidy's saturnine features smoothed into a blank, analytical mask at Dave's sudden composure; inwardly, clean white teeth curled in a malicious, knowing grin. She'd hit a soft spot that she previously hadn't known about. That necessitated a return to what she was practiced at: probing and watching, gleaning information from simple exchanges that could come in handy later. She already had all she needed to know on the Otto boy – Charlie was only a slightly harder challenge, but she still had to find the real reasoning behind Dave's actions. After all, she thought fleetingly, you never knew what to expect from a plaintiff until the end of the case.

Smirking slightly, the dark-haired woman nonchalantly flicked a few flakes of gore from her sleeve. her sky-blue eyes narrowed in anticipation of her next barbed comment. "So Otto, what psychiatric ward did you escape from? Bellevue? No," she conceded, "that's not in the right area. Arbor Hospital, maybe?"

While Dave seemed to welcome the abrupt change in subject – a smile was once again creeping onto his face – Charlie's brow furrowed in clear distrust. She _knew_ that Cassidy was up to something, although what exactly the older woman had planned was (for the moment) beyond her. It would be, until she finally got some sleep and got her brain back in working order in the morning. Either way, she didn't like where this was going; the last thing they needed was to start randomly fighting when they should all be going to sleep.

One bleary eye rolled over and focused on Cassidy; Otto managed to muster enough energy for one particularly vicious glance before his eyelid slid back down and covered the steel-colored iris. A tired, angry sigh – one very much like Dave's had been – rumbled up from somewhere deep inside the teen. "You know Boston University?"

Dave and Charlie nodded, whereas Cassidy raised an eyebrow. The quarantine and subsequent breakdown of the college campus had been wildly televised just a few months ago, alongside the increasingly morbid tales the Green Flu had spawned as it steadily crawled up and down the east coast and ate its way into the Midwest. The rumor that Massachusetts had been declared 'overrun' and abandoned by CEDA soon after had also spread for as long as the news had kept being broadcast.

Otto shifted his weight slightly, his clenched fists tightening even more and latching onto the barrel and stock of his shotgun. "I was there." Gruffly he pulled the weapon closer to his chest and drew his knees in tighter, almost resting his chin on them as he quietly mumbled. "Now go to sleep and shut up."

"You know, I think that's a great idea," Charlie hurriedly said, cutting off Cassidy's next comment at the root and earning herself a icy glare from the lawyer. She'd guessed that she had been picked to be the next Alpha Bitch-target, but she didn't really want to spill her guts like the others had. Well, Dave had done most of the gut-spilling…Otto just said, what, two sentences? "We can talk more later, when it's not, like, three in the morning. Sound good?"

Dave nodded. "Yep. G'night, all."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Faint smears of red and orange began creeping up onto the horizon as the peace and darkness of the night gave forth to the slow unveiling of death. The sun – bulging and yellow, inflamed and seemingly as sick as the world it looked down upon – slowly dragged itself into view, rising heavily above the horizon line like a tired swimmer from water and casting rays of light that weakly lit upon the blank faces available to watch the sunrise.

As the perfect circle managed to free itself from contact with the ground, an emerald flash of brilliant light sliced through the waxing orange and yellow; the sky itself seemed to be remarking upon the latest plague that had taken the world by viral storm. Green was the in color this year, apparently.

Just as the green flash dissipated into the dawn, the door of the safe house opened and a figure slipped outside. Hunched over, eyes gleaming with fear and weariness, the person checked to see their gun was cocked and ready to fire at anything threatening. Once assured that it was and that the coast was clear, they carefully closed the door behind them and took off down the street, the yellow of their shirt almost blending into the bright landscape. Almost, but not quite.

_This was a pitifully short and not very well-written chapter, but what can I do? The next update will be of considerably better quality, since I promise I won't try writing it at three in the morning like I'm doing here. :/ Anyway, here are the questions!_

_1) How would your character react if the other Survivors died or were seriously injured? (Be specific to each character, please.)_

_2) What sort of vehicle did they drive before the Infection spread?_

_3) What's their favorite kind of music? (Be specific, please!)_


	5. Chapter 5

_I'm __**back**__. (Finally.) The past few weeks at the summer camp I'm working at have been a practical hell – for instance, I got barfed on my a six-year old last Thursday – and I've been too annoyed and tired to write anything. Well, now I'm not, so here I am with another update. Thank you __**Dance in the Moonlight**__ for getting me back in the saddle again. :)_

_At the end of this chapter, there is an obnoxious assortment of questions for the owners of OCs as well as anyone who's still reading this. Please don't forget to answer them!_

A few hours after the sun rose, Charlie had jerked awake from a dream of sharp, shining teeth and the raw, rending scream of someone in terrible pain – with a gasp of fear she had sat up abruptly and drawn her gun to fire at the ephemeral threats, inadvertently pulling Cassidy and Dave into wakefulness after her. It had taken her several minutes to calm down and realize that no, zombies weren't breaking into their shelter to kill them all and yes, they were all still in the deli. Well, not _all_ of them, she thought, meeting each of her fellow Survivors' eyes and finding one pair missing. The corner that Otto had occupied the night before was cold and empty – it was obvious that the Grateful Dead fan had been gone for at least a few hours.

"The bastard probably ran off as soon as we realized we were asleep," Cassidy had muttered, rolling her eyes and checking to see that her gun and ammunition were still on her person; Charlie had been too preoccupied with the wet dream-sound of rending flesh that still echoed inside her head to argue with her.

They had waited, on Dave's request, for another hour, scrounging for supplies in the nearby stores and filling the Southerner's backpack with extra ammo and food. Cassidy had even found a red box filled with medical supplies in an alley; the lawyer had promptly strapped it to her back and refused to let anyone but her touch it, saying that she'd "keep it safe until someone needed it." Charlie – now completely out of her post-nightmare funk and annoyed as usual by Cassidy's tone – had fired back that 'someone' included others than herself.

Now they were sitting outside the deli on the curb, Dave munching on a power bar and Charlie slowly drinking one of the cans of Coke from last night. Next to them, Cassidy slid a new clip into her handgun and flicked the safety on, nonchalantly sliding it into a makeshift holster at her hip like it was something she had been doing for years. As the bellow of an Infected sounded somewhere near them – though not _too_ near, thankfully – she rolled her eyes and gazed down the street. "Dave, give it up. He's gone."

The Louisiana native shook his head, glancing up at Cassidy and slipping his empty wrapper into a side pocket. "No. He just went for supplies or something – that's got to be it." A troubled frown passed over his face like a cloud blocking out the sun; sighing, he reached for his dog tags and jingled them. "Why would he run away from other Survivors?"

"Maybe because he's a paranoid son of a bitch? Face it, he's not coming back. Baa-sten's probably halfway across the city by now."

As much as Charlie hated to admit it – even to herself – her fellow Survivor was right. Reaching over, she gently put a hand on Dave's shoulder and dropped her can into the gutter. "Cassidy's right, Dave…I don't think he's going to come back here." Not willing to give Cassidy the satisfaction of a victory, she scowled at the lawyer and shrugged. "But…hell, maybe we'll meet him again on the road. Either way, we've got to get going."

The Infected cried out again, sounding much closer than before and ending its yowl with a sickening hiss that raised the hair on the backs of the three Survivors' necks. Dave's head snapped up to face where the sound seemed to be coming from; with a dejected air he stood up and nodded, shouldering his pack and looking both ways on the street as if expecting a car to come speeding towards him. "Okay, let's go. Where to?"

Cassidy shrugged, coolly picking dirt out from underneath a nail and frowning to herself – even though the state of her nails hardly affected her chances for survival, it was still something that she prided herself in and paid attention to as part of her daily routine. Now, the even coat of glossy lacquer she had applied just three days ago was chipped and all but scraped off the surface of her nails; the skin on her face had similarly been rubbed clean of its sensible covering of makeup and was quickly on the way to becoming dirty and – so help her god – greasy. She needed a shower and some coverup soon, though she doubted that such things could be easily found any more. "What happened to Texas?"

Charlie frowned. "You know, I don't think that's such a good idea. It's actually pretty populated, and without a car or something we wouldn't be able to go through the desert areas without dying of dehydration and heat stroke and stuff like that. Aren't there deserts in Texas?"

"In some parts, jus' not quite near the border we'd be usin'. Near New Mexico and California, maybe," Dave responded, brow furrowed in thought. Somewhat wistfully, he added, "Though with a car it'd be easier to git ourselves places. I had this real nice pickup truck that used to run like a dream…"

"A pickup truck? I just had a standard college-student car." Charlie smiled and bobbed her head a bit. "You know, the kind you can't pick out in a parking lot because it looks like everyone else's car?"

This was getting _extremely_ off topic, thought Cassidy. If someone didn't step in to end this pointless tangent, they'd stay here and chatter until a horde came and beat the shit out of all of them. The lawyer snorted and rolled her eyes, quickly smothering the grin that threatened to split the carefully-crafted mask she had arranged her features into. "I can't believe we're actually talking about what _cars_ we drive, or drove – whatever. They're probably destroyed by now anyway." _Shit, now I'm contributing to this, _she thought fleetingly. Was she really the only mature one here?

As if to add to the insanity of the moment, the faint sound of bells floated towards them on the breeze. Charlie squinted, then balked, her eyes widening as the sound became clearer. "Oh my god, is that a Mr. Softee truck?"

"A what?"

Charlie nodded. "You know, Mr. Softee." When all she got was a bewildered glance from Dave, the young woman sighed and rapidly sang a little jingle. "_Just give me a dollar, I'll rip you off, 'cuz I'm Mr Softee_?"

"Oh. Well, that doesn't sound good…"

Smirking, Cassidy looked over at Dave and raised an eyebrow. "What's your problem, Dave? Did you want ice cream?"

Dave opened his mouth to counter the lawyer's latest remark, only to pause as a thought struck him. The corners of his mouth curled in a wide grin. "Yeah, actually. Ice cream sounds good right about now."

Charlie was snickering next to the Southerner, a hand clamped over her mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle the sounds of her giggling. Cassidy shot her a warning glare and crossed her arms against her chest, trying to figure out that the hell was so funny. Slowly, it came to her.

"Oh god, _tell _me you're not actually thinking…"

_Ugh. My Dad has insisted that I get off the computer now. _

_Okay, now for the questions:_

_1) If your character was seriously wounded, how would they react? What would they do?_

_2) Does your character think that society will rebuild? If so, what will they do to try to help?_

_3) What's your character's least favorite kind of Special Infected?_

_4) What's your favorite character's favorite food?_

_5) What does your character know about the "Green Flu"/Infection? Where did they learn this, and what do they think of it? Do they believe it's true?_

_6) Does your character think that they – and the rest of the Survivors – will ever be rescued?_

_7) If your character was to find an adrenaline shot, defibrillator pack, or pills, how would they react and what would they do with them? (Weird question, I know, but bear with me.) _

_8)Has your character ever smoked, drank, done drugs, etc? Would they do it if given the chance to?_

_For everyone:_

_1) Where do you want the group to go next?_

_2) If any canon characters were to meet with the motley crew of this story, which group would you want to show up? (Between the Left 4 Dead and Left 4 Dead groups.)_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey y'all…hope you're still reading this._

_Wow, this didn't take too long now, did it? A few months of inactivity and fighting the Horde– no sir! I am back and updating once more. What's even better is the fact that I've actually played most of Left 4 Dead 2 now, so I'm more familiar with the campaigns, as well as the mechanics of the Infected and in-game weapons. Coupled with a newly-developed plot (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), this bodes well for everyone who's still devoting time to read my ridiculously delayed L4D fanfiction. _

_One last point to make – the votes are in (or, more accurately, have been in for a while now) and the motley crew of __The Way__ will be meeting up with the Survivors from Left 4 Dead 2 sometime during the duration of this fic. We'll have our very own 'Passing' campaign._

Cassidy distastefully eyed the squat little vehicle, arms folded in a gesture of defiance. One stylish-yet-comfortable shoe tapped out a fast heartbeat on the pockmarked asphalt, an aural sign of her displeasure. "There's no way that we're going to drive off in _this_."

As if in response, the ice cream truck tinkled mournfully, its prerecorded jingle beginning to distort and die as its battery drained. Sitting abandoned in the middle of the street, it seemed woefully out of place; the yellow and white advertisements for various cold confectionaries were dented and splattered with bodily fluids that were far from appetizing, while the actual ice cream had melted into a sticky, multicolored puddle inside and under the rear area of the truck. Dave carefully stepped through the mush as Cassidy and Charlie observed from outside, the sugar-and-cream mixture adhering to the bottoms of his boots and making unsavory squelching sounds as he explored the powerless machinery inside the main body of the truck. The ice cream driver was nowhere to be found.

Charlie glared at the lawyer as the song – which was beginning to get extremely annoying at this point – started up once more. Putting out a hand in order to lean against the side of the truck, the teen grimaced as she touched a smear of dried red that was probably _not_ strawberry syrup. "What, it's not your top pick?"

"This thing wouldn't even be my _last_ choice of car." Pinching her temples, Cassidy swore under her breath as the vaguely bell-like music dropped an octave and slowed down, only to regain energy and shift pack to its normal pitch and tempo. She'd only listened to the jingle for a few minutes and already she wanted to destroy its source – she couldn't imagine how the driver of the car had managed to deal with it. What's more, she couldn't even find it in her to wish that she could. It was just too early, her developing migraine was too severe, and the current environment was too dangerous.

Charlie scowled, pulling her hand out of the viscous crimson it was sitting in. "Too bad, Ms. Picky. It's got an engine and wheels – that's all we need. If we get a car, we can go places."

"Like where? Texas? Look – " Cassidy chewed on the inside of her cheek before speaking again, ignoring the bemused stare of Charlie and the quiet _squish_ of Dave's feet as she struggled to get her irritated thoughts in order. Finally, a suitable argument came to her. "We can't drive away in this thing. That damn noise is going to attract every infected nearby."

The heavy smooshing of melted ice cream heralded Dave's kindly remark. "There's a switch on the inside, if ya'll want the song off." The stocky male turned and went even deeper into the interior of the little ice cream truck, fiddling around with something near the driver's seat with gusto; with the harsh squawk of an interrupted note, the jingle was cut short. They could almost hear the grin in Dave's voice as he cut through the sudden lack of sound. "There ya go. Peace and quiet."

"As much peace and quiet as we can _get_, anyway." Cassidy rolled her eyes, checking her weapon and health kit out of a sudden urge to do so – it might be paranoia, but she could have sworn that she heard something crunch nearby as the ice cream song was turned off. Something like a heavy foot stepping on broken glass.

Charlie must have heard the noise as well, because the younger woman raised her baseball bat a fraction of an inch and looked briefly around. Her voice, however, only contained the irritation that was quickly becoming standard for all interactions between the two of them. "Oh, _thanks,_ Cassidy."

"Hey, I'm just being realistic here – and Dave, you can get out of there, because there's no way I'm driving an _ice cream truck_. It's the end of the world here, but we're going to maintain at least _some_ dignity_."_

Dave's hand briefly twitched for the keys hanging tantalizingly in the ignition; with a sigh, he turned and began stepping through the sugary mush on the metal floor of the truck. "Cass, we should really jus'—" He paused mid-word, effectively nipping Cassidy's readied remark at the root as he bent down to pick something out of a puddle of vanilla flavoring. Turning it over in his big hands, he slowly cleared the rest of the distance and stepped out of the back of the vehicle. Brow furrowed, he held out the mysterious object out to the two of them, palm up. "Guys, what d'you reckon _this_ is?"

It was almost the size of his forearm, slick and yet uncomfortably sticky as a result of the time it spent in the melted ice cream; the faded word _'adrena-shot'_ in white lettering was all that was visible against the grimed black of the soggy paper label. The entire thing seemed to be an oversized green vial of some sort, covered by a white plastic protector that had cracked slightly – probably from Dave stepping on it, but judging by the amount of time it must have been sitting in the truck it was impossible to know for sure. A yellow-tipped cap was at one end; the stocky man popped it off only to flinch as a rather large needle became visible. "What the hell? Looks like some kinda…I don't know, drug thing."

Charlie blinked, tentatively taking the 'adrena-shot' and staring at it with dim recognition. Opening her mouth, she mumbled a name that had no meaning to the others – it sounded something like 'Henry' – and swallowed. When she spoke again, her voice was vague and tinged with disbelief. "I think it's an epi-pen…my neighbor had these cat allergies, you know? Like, whenever he went over my house he'd start sneezing and he'd get these really bad hives, like hives all over his body. It was really gross– "

Dave scratched at his jaw, grimacing at the feel of melted chocolate rubbing off into his stubble. His voice, however, was just as civil and warm as ever. "Mind getting to the point, Charlie?"

"Yeah, before I– "

"Shut up, Cassidy." Charlie shot a sheepish smile at Dave that quickly turned into a glare aimed at Cassidy. Shrugging, she wiped at some of the sugar coating the outside of the autoinjector. "It's adrenaline, I think, and some other stuff that they mix in there. He'd use something like this when he got an allergic reaction. They weren't this big, though—"

"Well, none of us have allergies, so can we drop this thing and go looking for an _actual_ car?" Cassidy swore quietly under her breath and gestured to their surroundings. "Because I seriously doubt that we'll be alone like this for…" Something moved in the corner of her field of vision; she turned slightly, only to gape as she took in the…_thing_ that was running – no, _charging_ right for them.

"Holy shit what_ is_ that."

Time seemed to momentarily freeze as the face of the Infected – _what_ face, there was just a half-smashed skull with gray skin and those eyes burning deep inside, burning and blank and oh god, _what the hell was that thing _– bellowed, its caustic, rancid breath ruffling at Cassidy's hair. It barreled right past the three of them and into the ice cream truck, which tilted violently and leapt several feet to the side, buckling like a tin can as the wheels squealed and left black skid marks on the asphalt. The impact was so sudden – so _unexpected _– that Dave had no time to react; with the sickening _thunk_ of bone on metal, his head ricocheted off of the moving metal and a burst of pain danced like fireworks behind his eyes. His knees folded without his permission and he sank to the ground, landing face-first into the asphalt and moaning softly. A loud bellow – like something from a mad cow, Dave dazedly thought – came from above him as whatever had attacked the truck stumbled back and shook itself off, its growling mixing with the sudden, _very loud_ thudding of blood in his ears.

Charlie was the first to unfreeze. "What the fuck – _Dave!_ You alright?"

Cassidy was the first to remember her gun. "He's fine – shoot it! Just shoot it!"

"What the hell _is_ that?"

The sweet smell of butter pecan accosted Dave's nostrils as Cassidy yelled something in return, gunfire obliterating most of her words in a puffing sort of _whumpwhumpwhump_ noise as bullets sunk into their attacker's flesh and ultimately failed to keep it stunned. More of that angry mooing – was that speech? He was pretty sure he just heard the word 'chainsaw' – followed as Dave tried to sit up, as well as what sounded almost like a pair of heavy work boots thudding their way towards the group. Another roar came as the man fumbled for the rifle lying just out of reach next to him – whatever it was, it was coming again – if he had to, he was going to put a few bullets into this thing before –

Two much lighter footsteps landed somewhere near his head – his _head_, it hurt pretty bad right about now, actually – and Dave flopped onto his side, trying to assess just what the hell was going on as Charlie plunked herself down into the driver's seat, a steady stream of oaths and frantic mutterings escaping her, and turned the key in the ignition. Outside, the roar was more desperate, gurgling to a final, mournful howl; true to their luck, however, other enraged cries broke into the sudden silence just as the truck's engine gave a tired-sounding wheeze.

Charlie hopped out of the truck and into Dave's view, an expression of such abject horror on her face that the brown-haired man have comforted her right away, had he not been lying in a puddle of ice cream with his head possibly dented. "It's out of gas! We've got to find gas, or…" She seemed to come to herself and swore, standing up and helping her dazed teammate to his feet. "Shit, Dave, you okay? You're bleeding – we've _got to get some gas_. They must have heard the guns or…_it_, and now…"

In his haze of pain, Dave only managed to catch fragments of what his fellow Survivor was saying – his ears weren't working too well and things kept fading into intelligible noise, and since when was his heartbeat so damn _loud?_ No wonder the Infected could hear them. Leaning against the truck's fender, he held his head and tried to sort through the young woman's frantic speech. "Charlie, slow down. I can't– "

"This is _exactly _why I said we shouldn't take the damn truck!" The blur of white and red and black that was Cassidy emptied a clip into the rapidly approaching mob of Infected, reloading and glancing back at the other two with a frazzled expression that didn't suit her well. "Now we've got to get the hell out of here! They're coming!"

"We can't! There's no gas – oh my god, oh god, there's no gas. What are we going to _do?"_

A faint memory sparked painfully behind Dave's eyes. "Gas."

Charlie's face wrinkled, face terrified and blank for the briefest of seconds, and then she was just terrified and shooting into the Horde as well. "What? Yeah, gas! Gas – did you see any? Oh god, come on Dave– "

"There's a can of gas over by that building we passed…" Slowly, Dave blinked, lazily looking across the street. His eyes immediately met the writhing mass of Infected that had formed a rough crescent, rushing towards them with blood and other fluids he couldn't – and _wouldn't_ – identify mingling with the strange gibbering noises escaping their jagged maws. Oddly enough, this didn't inspire the usual fear, though he did raise his gun and begin shooting alongside the other two; the entire thing seemed detached from him somehow. He could very well have a concussion, come to think of it. That would explain things.

Charlie stared at him, bringing her baseball bat crashing down onto the head of an Infected at the same time. Blood flew from the wooden surface, landing under her left eye; hurriedly she wiped at the blotch and only succeeded in smearing it into a longer, thinner streak. "Oh god, oh god – we've got to get it then!" Her gun clicked. "Shit – reloading! Wait…" Charlie's eyes narrowed as she grabbed a clip from her pocket, jamming it home just as she spied something on the ground.

With that same calmness – yes, he definitely did have a concussion – Dave shook his head and pistol-whipped a rather bloated Infected across one puffy cheek. Acrid saliva and blood spurted from the cut as the zombie howled before he dispatched it with a bullet to the temple. "Too far. With these zombies, we jus' can't make it – "

A sharp pinch in his thigh. Dave looked down to see the overgrown epi-pen sticking up, needle dug into the thick material of his jeans and, from there, into his flesh, and suddenly the pain worming its way through his skull vanished, replaced with the faster thudding of his blood in his ears. A strange tingling sensation spread from his leg up his spine as the hair on the back of his neck stood up – Dave shook himself slightly, breath whooshing through his nostrils, leg muscles tensing, and suddenly the building with the precious gas inside was just within range, he knew it, there were a shit-ton of Infected but all he had to do was run in, keep shooting, and _get it_.

Charlie was yelling at him. "Go! Go! Come on, dave – get that freaking gas already! I'll cover you – _go!"_

The Louisiana native smirked, briefly touching the brim of his hat with the steady _bump-bump-bump-bump-bump_ of his heartbeat so loud, so _loud_ that anything with a working pair of ears could hear it.

"You got it."

…_and there you go! The revival of __The Way__ has been set in motion! Admittedly it was rushed at the end, but I'm writing this right as my class ends – I have to go in less than sixty seconds._

_Questions for people with OCs:_

_1) Has your character ever had to kill someone close to them when they became Infected?_

_2) If your character became Infected, what would they want to happen to them? Would they want to be shot or kept alive for study and a possible cure?_

_3) If the other Survivors in the group became Infected, how would your character react?_

_4) As of right now in the story, what's your character's game plan? What are they primarily concerned with or want to do?_

_Questions for everyone:_

_Honestly, what do you think of this story thus far? Should I continue it? I'd just like to know what you think – no sugar-coating necessary. Feel free to flame if you see fit._

_Got any ideas for where this should go? I'd love to hear your ideas for plots._


	7. Chapter 7

_What's this? Another update? Yeah, I didn't see this coming either. :P I've got three English projects that need to be completed, but I had an idea of what to write, so here it is. XD Fanfiction supersedes schoolwork and I'd really like to forge ahead with this before things get either too convoluted or boring. Updates every two days won't be likely, however – I'll aim for one a week, but who knows?_

_Many thanks to everyone reading this – anonymous reviews are enabled, so don't be shy about reviewing! – and both __**Dance in the Moonlight **__and __**DestinyIntertwined**__ for sticking around and reviewing after the resurrection chapter! You guys rock, really, and it's an honor to get to use your original characters in this story of mine. They're realistic, different, and make for fantastic interactions between them as the action progresses... *sigh*_

_Alright, before I burst into tears of happiness here:_

"Go, _go,_ go go go go go–ah, Jesus."

It had seemed like one hell of a good idea less than ten seconds ago – run in, grab the gas, run back out and fuel the truck – but as Dave half-waded, half-battered his way through the Horde it became apparent that it was one more likely to get him killed than anything. As soon as he'd charged into the midst of the Infected he'd become their prime target, and whatever it was that Charlie had injected him with only lasted for enough time to get him right into the middle of the mob. Now, Dave was barely managing to hold his own now, standing _barely three feet_ from the broken window of the shop with a veritable wave of the damn things trying to get their grubby hands on him. Cassidy and Charlie's attacks only served to pick off the outermost ones; neither of them could throw a pipe bomb for fear of injuring the other Survivor.

They _really_ had to work out a strategy for these sorts of situations.

His arms and back were a mass of stinging cuts and bruises that rose like thunderheads, sapping his remaining strength and adding to the steady ache of his injured head; the coppery scent of blood mixed with the burning-trash aroma of the Infected and Dave found himself wondering fleetingly when the last time he showered was. It couldn't have been too recent, obviously, and Jesus – they were _everywhere_, snarling and lashing out at the brown-haired man as the vague, distorted calls of his teammates came through the din of gibbering voices.

_Come on,_ the man hissed to himself, turning to pistol whip an Infected that had dug its nails into his back. The sickened person stumbled backwards, only to yelp and resume its attacking with the same robotic air. _Come on – you can get the damn gas, think of what Gabe would do and you can get back to the others_. _Come on, Dave, they're jus' __**people**_**.**

People that currently derived rabid pleasure from tearing him to bits, more precisely, but people nonetheless. Well, in theory anyway.

He had to get out of this _now_, or else he wouldn't be getting out of it at all. Dave planted his foot into the chest of a bloodied man charging him; kicking out, he pushed the white-eyed, gurgling Infected back into its fellows. In the commotion, a small gap formed in the ring surrounding him – and that was all he needed. Worming his arm through the broken window, he grabbed the heavy plastic container and yanked it out of the shop, holding it to his chest and pistoning his legs forward. Something cracked beneath his foot, an Infected nose probably, but he hardly noticed. The pavement distance – surely it was only ten, twenty feet? It looked like miles – stretched before him impossibly as Dave sucked in a deep, phlegm-and-blood-choked breath.

"Cass! Charlie! Quit yer shootin' – I'm comin'! Get to the truck!"

Charlie looked over, mouth working soundlessly; quickly she fled to the truck, backpedaling and providing cover fire as Dave neared the fuel intake. Hands shaking, the man tried to unscrew the cap and pour the gas in – he didn't have the dexterity necessary to do it. He _had to_ pour this damn gasoline in – he nearly _died_ for this stuff –

The red canister was yanked from his grasp as the lawyer roughly shoved him aside. "Get in the goddamn truck. I'll get this."

"Cass–"

"_Get in!"_

There was no arguing with that tone. Dave nodded stiffly, hobbling as quickly as he could over to the back door as another collective roar came; the Horde had regrouped and was barreling towards them once more, all broken teeth and white-hot eyes. Charlie grabbed his hand – slick with sweat and blood, ah god it_ hurt_ – and yanked him roughly inside.

"Cassidy! Get in the ice cream truck or die!"

Pouring complete, the lawyer dived in spectacularly, landing inside and pulling the door shut as Dave sank into the driver's seat and turned the key once more. This time, the engine responded, roaring to life and sending the three flying back as the truck shot forward, a cubic tin bullet of safety and escape.

Behind them, sickened forms howled, trying to keep pace, but it was too late – they were charging blindly forward, fleeing the scene at a pace none of them could reach. One pale face twisted, spitting out something that might have been a word once as it lashed out after the truck, tinkling faintly.

They were _out of reach_.

"What the_ hell_ was that back there?"

Charlie hadn't known that Cassidy could get this irritable, to be honest; sitting in a relatively clean spot in the back of the ice cream truck, the lawyer's face was drawn and she slowly dug her fingernails into her temples in a stressed parody of weariness. Her breath hissed out from between her clenched teeth in something partly annoyed, partly in pain. "That _wasn't_ a goddamn rhetorical question."

Dave was curious as to what Charlie would say in response; she could tell by the way he blinked and glanced in the rear-view mirror at the two women in the back. He wormed his fist into his shirt and pulled out the dog tags –the simple motion pushed his ragged sleeve up slightly and it was evident that he was _covered_ in cuts and bruises. A dull, sick feeling twisted in Charlie's stomach as her eyes alighted on the injuries, only to be overpowered by a sharp realization: it could be much worse.

Charlie sighed, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her arm. "What was what?"

"Dave deciding to charge right into the middle of a fucking Horde like he's Rambo – what the _hell_ were you thinking?" Glaring at the man currently sitting in the driver's seat, Cassidy released her vice grip on her own head and rolled her eyes. The venom slowly leached out of her expression, replaced instead by the kind of tired irritation she'd worn for most of the day. "I should have figured one of you would do something completely idiotic like that."

"At least now ya'll know I'm immune, right?" Dave weakly grinned, exposing a badly split lip. He winced and held a battered hand to his face – Charlie realized that, for some bizarre reason, they had the most injured one of them driving the truck. They could hardly pull over and switch seats at the moment, though. "Ah damn. Shoulda listened to Jess…that pen thing didn't help much."

"'Pen thing?' What–" Cassidy flicked a strand of dark hair out of her face, features arranging themselves into an incredulous look as she looked over from Dave to Charlie. "Wait – you gave Dave that adrenaline shot?"

Charlie nodded, awkwardly rubbing her hands over her arms. "Um, yeah. I mean, adrenaline makes people run faster, right? So…"

"Let me get this straight: you found something–"

Dave raised a hand. "I did."

"–fine, _Dave_ found something lying in the back on an ice cream truck, in the middle of a fucking zombie apocalypse, and you decided it would be a good idea to _stick it in him?"_

Charlie scowled. "It worked, didn't it, and at least I had a plan in the first place!"

"You could have killed him!

"Gals, please." Dave sighed, rubbing at his bruised temples. "My head hurts pretty darn bad right now, and ya'll ain't helpin'…" Sighing, he chuckled softly. "At least ya'll know I'm immune now."

_Questions: _

_1) If your character met the crew from L4D2, what would their initial reactions be? Be specific, please!_

_2) Does your character have any skills that would be useful in __**constructing**__ a safe house?_

_3) What's your character's favorite poem or book? (Title and author, please.)_

_Additionally, I'd like to say this: there's a tentative plotline that involves new original characters being introduced – only for a few chapters. For fairness, I'd like people who haven't already gotten an OC into this story to have a chance. If you're interested, send me a private message or contact me over deviantArt; my username is _"olo-doorbell."


	8. Chapter 8

_Woohoo! All three of the people who submitted OCs have reviewed – now all I need are a few reviews from other people and everything will be hunky-dory. ;) *obnoxiously asking for reviews*_

_Anyway, I hope that everyone had a good Thanksgiving and survived Black Friday – personally, I spent the entire time hiding out at home and watching zombie movies. That whole American tradition of going shopping at three in the morning doesn't really jive with me, but you know what they say about different strokes. Whatever you did this week, though, I hope you enjoyed it and didn't get bodily harmed in any way. :) That's more than our heroes of __The Way__ can say, though… :P_

They had to stop once they'd put roughly twenty minutes of driving between them and the screaming mob; the roads were narrow and littered with the entwined hunks of crashed cars, glinting evilly in the bright midday sun. Dave was doing his best to avoid driving over or into the metal death traps, weaving the boxy little vehicle around the obstacles like a pillbug around stones, but with his untreated head wound it became too much for the man to handle.

Sighing resolutely, he halted the truck in front of an overturned tractor-trailer, narrowly avoiding a hunk of something shiny and burnt that might have been either part of a motorcycle or a stoplight at one point. Whatever it was, it could have easily punctured one of their tires. "Sorry, ya'll, but this is it…I can't drive the old gal any further." Wincing, Dave held a hand to his head and opened the door, stepping down and out of the truck with his eyes squeezed shut. "One a' you has to drive." A sheepish, pained sort of grin came to his face as he felt his way over to a nearby sidewalk and sat down, ignoring the dirt that covered the concrete. "Some help would be good too…"

Charlie met Cassidy's eyes for a second, mentally gauging what the lawyer was liable to do. Even though she was the one carrying the health pack, Cassidy didn't seem the type to do any actual _healing_; as if to reaffirm her point, the lawyer leaned forward slightly, detaching the red box from her back and stiffly handing it over to her younger compatriot without a sound. Cassidy's eyes narrowed slightly, flicked over to their male teammate and blinked – the lawyer stood up and made her way into the driver's seat, pistol in hand.

The silent exchange was enough for both of them. With a quick nod, Charlie slid open the tin back door of the truck and hopped out, walking over to where Dave was sitting on the curb. Carefully, the brown-haired woman knelt down next to him and noted that a nasty-looking bruise had began puffing up near his left temple, sliding past his hairline and vanishing underneath his grimed cap. Dave cracked his eyes open and looked up at her briefly, winced at the sudden intrusion of light behind his eyelids, and promptly shut them again. Yep, he had a concussion. No doubt about it. "Hey, Charlie – ah _damn_…"

"Hey Dave – let me patch you up real quick. How's your head feeling?" Charlie opened the soft red case at her feet, quickly looking over and frowning at its contents. There wasn't much that seemed very good for concussions – gauze, medical tape, and disinfectant made up the majority of the health pack's contents – but there was a small white bottle tucked in at the very bottom of the kit. Taking that out, Charlie scrutinized the somewhat-tattered label before unscrewing the child-proof cap and shaking out a few white tablets. Carefully, she shook Dave's shoulder and held them out. "Here, take these."

Dave was unresponsive for one alarming second, his hands pressed painfully to his head as he muttered something to himself that Charlie couldn't quite catch. Blinking, he looked over at the woman kneeling beside him with just a trace of confusion in his expression. "What?"

Charlie took Dave's hand, tipping the capsules into his callused palm with a thin smile. "They're aspirin. They'll help with the headache – there's really nothing else, except for rubbing alcohol and stuff…" The woman's brow furrowed as the Louisiana native shook his head. "What?"

"Yer not supposed to take aspirin when yer head's hurt." Grunting slightly, the man took the bottle from Charlie's grasp. Clumsily popping off the cap, he put the pills back inside, dropping one in the process; the simple dexterity required for such a task seemed to be slightly above him at the moment. "Painkillers n' alcohol too. I'll jus' sit and tide this one out…probably be better after we hunker down for the night an' all..." A small grin came to his face, smoothing out the creases of discomfort and deepening the laugh lines etched into his continence as he meaningfully touched a scrape on his jaw. "That rubbin' alcohol would be welcome, though. Don't want an infection or nothin'."

"Would you two quit bonding and just bandage yourselves up already?" Scowling, Cassidy leaned out of the driver's side window and fixed the other two Survivors with a glare that clearly meant business_; _her thin lips parted to show white teeth in a grin that they somehow knew wasn't meant to be as malicious as it looked. "Just because you two are most likely the only living humans left doesn't mean I won't drive off without you."

Rolling her eyes, Charlie took the bait. "_Sure_ – then who'll watch your frigid ass?" She picked out a roll of gauze and began to wrap it around Dave's cut-up arm, pausing to dab at the injuries with a disinfectant-soaked pad. Chuckling, she called back to Cassidy over her shoulder. "You know you secretly love us already, _Cass._ Deep down in that little heart of yours."

"I'm a lawyer. I don't have a heart." A dark chuckle came from the lawyer as she drew her head back inside the truck, accompanied by a light beeping of the horn. "Now come on – we've got to get out of the city before we get hit with another damn Horde."

"You're always so cheerful, Cassidy." Charlie snickered, securing the layer of bandages with the small clip in the medical kit; starting on Dave's other arm, she noticed that the man was apparently lost in thought, his eyes half-lidded and downcast. He hissed slightly as she cleaned a particularly deep cut near his elbow, only to sigh and look away from the injury with an expression stunningly close to that of a young boy who had watched his house burn down with his dog still inside. Charlie hesitated, smile fading as she put the bottle of ethyl alcohol back inside the health kit. "What is it, Dave?"

Dave seemed to rouse himself slightly and shrugged. "It's jus'…I'm thinking about what Cass said. Is that–" He paused, gesturing for a moment for the right words. They came to him and he sighed, expression bleak. "Are we really it?" Another pause, this one even more strained – Dave seemed to be mentally struggling with something that he'd rather leave alone in the dark corner of his mind where it came from. "There's no way we're the only ones left out there."

Part of the mountain of crushed tractor-trailer in front of them moved, falling over from its top-heavy position to a better balanced one as Charlie fell silent; the iridescent hunk of unidentified steel was buried as a white section of sheet metal bent and smothered it. The eerie scraping of rust against the road grated at both of their ears, electing a wince from Dave and a smaller, more-sympathetic-than-sincere wince from Charlie. A deep groan came from the stressed metal, advertising its strained vulnerability – all it would take is a single knock of metal against metal for the entire structure to fall to pieces. One tiny, unintentional blow...

Silently, the woman finished wrapping up Dave's arm as the man waited for her to say something, _anything_, but what was there to say? She barely knew what to think of everything that had been thrust upon all of them over the past few weeks, to be honest; deep in the back of her mind, something dark and greasy constantly surfaced to remind her of just what she was shooting at as she pulled the trigger – just what it was that was attacking them, and just what the attackers had already destroyed. If the three of them were really _all that was left_ of humanity, what could they hope to do? What could they even _hope_ to rebuild from the mountain of ashes, as small and frail as they were?

Charlie bit her tongue, allowing the resulting sharp pain and coppery taste to drive the dark, potentially-dangerous thoughts away. They had to _survive_ now – that was it. Just survive…and not think about it too hard.

Inhaling, she sighed and helped Dave to his feet, a grim smile flitting across her slim features as she scooped up the half-empty health pack. "I don't know, Dave – but hey, _we're_ alive, and that Otto guy probably is too. That's good, right? I mean, fuck, it's a _start_."

Dave's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of the fled Survivor's name, only to widen as Charlie's words began to hit home. A chuckle drifted up from somewhere inside him. "Yeah. Fuck, it's a start." Turning to the ice cream truck, he knocked on the driver's side door and winced at the reverberating sound the motion caused. "Now – ah damn, _not_ smart – we've gotta think of a plan here. Jus' where are we gonna go? Any ideas, you two?"

"Yeah – out of the damn city." Cassidy turned the key, allowing the truck's sugar-coated engine to rumble to life. "Now get in the damn truck already."

"Oh chill out, Cassidy. Nobody's going to see you driving the stupid truck out here." Grinning, Charlie retorted, snickering at the lawyer's returning glare; with a florish, she made her way to the back of the truck and opened the door. "After you, Mister Dave."

Dave shook his head slightly as he lumbered into the back and settled himself down; his voice was tinged with mirth and annoyance, tangled into one odd half-tone as he muttered. "An' I'm the one with the dang concussion…" Raising his voice slightly, he looked up to the driver's seat as Charlie shut the truck door after her. "Now seriously, where are we goin'? It's pointless runnin' if you don't have a place to run _to_."

Charlie thought for a second. "Well, we're not going to Texas, right? Hey, do we have a map?"

"I don't think so – I was jus' thinkin' that myself."

"I told you, we're going out of the city. That's what we need to focus on right now." Cassidy eased the vehicle back, edging around the scrap metal and cutting into the opposite lane with a muttered curse. Next to them came a sudden screech of metal, impossibly loud and close – too close. "What the hell…oh _shit_."

From the cutaway window on the side of the ice cream truck, they could see the tractor-trailer sitting alongside them shift once more, listing towards them at a frightening angle as the tilted chassis buckled under the weight of the sideways engine and folded like paper. The sound of popping rivets was like gunfire along the length of the white, box-like structure – the air around the structure seemed to turn to rubber, slowly _stretching _with tension as entire sections of support crunched under invisible hands, bending into wide arcs like green wood in the hands of a young child.

A mental image leapt, unbidden, to the fore of the trio's minds: that of the ice cream truck squashed under the mountain of snowy metal, red liquid that _wasn't_ strawberry syrup pooling around the now-motionless scrapheap. All that worrying about surviving and the morality of their actions, simplified.

Charlie's voice was oddly small amidst the cacophony of groaning metal. "Cassidy, _drive!_"

One sensible-yet-comfortable shoe depressed the accelerator and the truck roared forward, running over something that crunched unpleasantly as the steady groan reached fever pitch. Charlie and Dave gasped, sucking in nervous lungfuls of air as behind them, the tractor-trailer finally lost the battle with potential energy and rolled like a die, almost righting itself before landing with a screech and bang exactly where the ice cream truck had been only seconds before.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Cassidy swore under her breath again and addressed the two Survivors in the back. "Somewhere where there aren't any damn Infected or trashed cars every ten goddamn feet. Sound good?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Yeah…holy shit…"

_Anyone care to spot the L4D2 campaign reference? Awesome points for the first person to guess. ;) But meh…this chapter seems sort of lacking to me. It could have been done better._

_Questions:_

_1) If your character was separated from the others and didn't know if they were alive or not, what would they do?_

_2) Let's say that everyone got rescued by the military. How would your character react?_

_3) Now, let's say that the crew found out that there would be no rescue. How would your character react?_

_4) Any ideas for scenes/situations the characters could get into? I'd love to hear your opinions. :D _


End file.
